


A shortish Story

by enchantersnight



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 05:29:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2298221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enchantersnight/pseuds/enchantersnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A haunted house story</p>
            </blockquote>





	A shortish Story

"This is where they found Mrs Price strangled with her own tights." The voice was cultured and smooth and matched precisely the charming man who had spoken.

"Now don't get me wrong. Not all the previous tenants have died and there hasn't been an abominable number of mysterious deaths on the site, just enough to get the house rebuilt twice and to discourage people to buy it."

I didn't think the house was particularly creepy, but then I have been an author for five years and I am not easily spooked. Besides, I always wrote my best works in houses with an atmosphere.

"Now about one hundred years ago young Mr. Coral was hung from a tree that used to stand here."

We were standing near the stairs now, about to go into the dining room when Mr. Collins decided to take me upstairs and proceeded to tell me about the grisly murders that had taken place there.

"In 1879, Mr. Fetluck was strangled in his bed. Mrs. Poir was electrocuted in her bath."

"Um, Mr. Collins," I interjected after five minutes of ghostly tales.

"Call me Peter."

"Yes. . . Well I thought you were meant to be trying to sell me this house not terrifying me into not moving!"

"Are you scared?" He asked, sounding concerned. I had heard of estate agents who seduced clients by scaring them half to death then 'comforting' them, but looking at Peter Collins I doubted that was what he was doing, he looked too, well, nice. He was tall, slightly built with fair tousled hair that part of me longed to run my fingers through, no, he didn't look like a prospective seducer at all.

"No, no," I replied, "I want this house, it's just that if I wasn't so brave I'd be scared to be anywhere near herel"

"Well, I'll just show you the dining room and the garden, then if you're sure you want it I'll get the papers ready." I followed this endearing man downstairs and tried to concentrate on what he was saying and not on him, something about a Mr. Jones being poisoned. How interesting I thought that a man in his early thirties reminded me so much of a little boy. Anyway, I rebuked myself, why shouldn't I fall for him? I'm only human, and he's an estate agent, not Lucifer.

The garden was as peaceful as anything I could have wished for. A tall willow overlooked an enormous fishpond in which two huge Koi carp swam benignly. This calm atmosphere was only spoiled when Peter began enthusiastically to tell me about the people who had died here.

"Mr. Swalls shot his wife Jane down at the bottom of the garden. Simon Heoles was found dead just over by those Rhododendron."

"I thought you said there hadn't been an abominable number of deaths here?" I quipped and was dismayed to see his face fall suddenly.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "Am I annoying you'?"

"Not at all," I said using the conversation as an excuse to move a steps closer to him. "Do you think I could sign the papers now'?" I asked. "Of course," Peter replied and drew them from his briefcase. I signed them then and there.

It is strange that a house can change so much in two weeks. When I first moved in, I settled down to work and, as I had hoped, the atmosphere did fuel my imagination. Now however, the house is giving me the creeps and drawing my imagination, but only towards panic, not inspiration. It started with voices while I was writing. Now, I always hear my stories, but these voices were not those of my stories, they were those of the previous occupants of this house. What I thought looked like a good Victorian style conversion now looks horribly old and authentic. I have discovered a door that will not open and a corner on the stairs that is always dark. I feel like I'm being stifled by the atmosphere not inspired by it.

Anyway, I was just finishing a chapter of my book when the doorbell rang. I was quite surprised to see Peter standing there looking awkward. "Hello." I said.

"Um, I was just passing and I thought I'd see if you had settled in alright."

"Well come in," I said and shut the door. "Would you like a drink?" I asked. It was hard for me to stop myself pushing his errant hair out of his eyes as we walked into my lounge. "Well do sit down," I indicated the sofa and walked towards the drinks cabinet. . .then stopped as I felt a pair of strong hands close tightly round my neck and I realised too late that Peter Collins had been too good to be true. As the eager thumbs pressed decisively on my windpipe I heard

"This is where I strangled Miss Allen."


End file.
